A homely, overweight drow who keeps himself unnaturally prim: skin the pallor of polished obsidian dusted with a light, flaky lichen-like patch along the temples (he insists it's a 'skin condition' rather than drow pigmentation), robes and waistcoats perpetually pressed though rarely new. His gait is small and cautious, like a man threading between sleeping dogs; yet when he moves to fight, his bulk becomes a surprising, lumbering spring. He favors layers of thin linen under heavier coats so his rolls and jowls bulge into cartoonish, almost grotesque relief. Always at his side: a pair of well-worn nunchaku in a battered leather loop, and an oversized glass eye—milky, pale green—set into a brass socket that bulges grotesquely from a shallow, jagged scar. The glass eye is both a prosthetic and a trophy: it collected at least one story and nearly another man's life. Unexpectedly, he wears a delicate silver brooch in the shape of a stylized high-elf star—two things in tension: exquisite taste and someone trying, very hard, to look like they belong somewhere else.